


Hit That Like the Like Button

by gamera (Megan)



Category: Original Work
Genre: Anal Fingering, Blackmail, Crying, Elements of Forced Prostitution, Forced Exhibitionism, Handcuffs, Humiliation, M/M, Manhandling, Masochism, Non-Consensual Barebacking, Nonconathon Treat, Shitty Internet Commenters, Spanking, Verbal Humiliation, unwanted arousal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-08
Updated: 2018-07-08
Packaged: 2019-06-07 00:24:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15206756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Megan/pseuds/gamera
Summary: "Hm, looks like your fans are disappointed." The world lurches again as he stoops down-- is he adjusting the camera? Pointing it down so that it doesn't catch his face? "Maybe they should punish you-- you did walk off and leave them without warning them you were bringing in yourspecial guest."He can hear his chat notifications going berserk.Ping, ping, ping"Oh, I like that idea. A fan is offering twenty dollars for every hit you can take on that cute ass you never let them see. And another generous soul will give you fifty if we take your pants off."





	Hit That Like the Like Button

**Author's Note:**

  * For [penumbralsock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/penumbralsock/gifts).



Answering the door had been stupid, stupid, _stupid_. He should have ignored it and kept his attention on his audience, maybe even played it up for tips. _Can you prove I should be more interested in you than my Amazon delivery?_ He'd have taken off his shirt, flirted with the tippers by name, and gone on with his vlog.

Instead, there's a hand over his mouth and a knee digging into the small of his back, keeping him pinned down to the floor.

"I'll tell you this once," a familiar voice that he can't quite place says. "Keep your mouth shut and do as you're told if you don't want the entire internet to know that Alexey Lebedev at 425 Willow Court in Apartment 2F is taking his clothes off on camera _right now_ and if they're local they can come see the show in person."

Fuck, _fuck_. This isn't happening. He's been careful, taken every precaution he can short of not showing his face at all. Five minutes ago he would have laughed and said that there was no way anyone had doxxed him.

Where has he heard that voice before?

Then the hand over his mouth is gone, but the knee pinning him down remains. There's a metallic _snap_ and something settles cold and sharp over his wrists-- fuck, are those _handcuffs?_ Is he getting robbed on camera? Fucking _murdered_ on camera?

"What do you want?" Shit, he hadn't wanted to sound so desperate. But even if this was some prank, no one could find out how he made his money, no one. It would kill his grandmother. Hell, it would kill half of her church friends along with her. _Oh, babushka, did I mention that I make a living suggestively narrating my life and toeing the line with softcore pornography so creepy men and teenage girls will throw small amounts of cash at me?_

And that's the best case scenario right now.

"I told you already: keep your mouth shut and do what you're told." The hand that had been over his mouth presses down on his head, forcing his face onto the floor. "You do that, nobody back in your old neighborhood finds out that darling _Lyosha_ is a camwhore and nobody in your audience gets your name and address."

Fuck.

Nobody calls him that except for his grandmother and her friends, nobody. And the man pinning him to the floor is anything but an elderly woman who doesn't speak a word of English. How the hell does he know that? What else does he know?

"Fine," he mumbles as best he can against the floor tiles. "I'll do what you want."

The pressure on his back lifts, but he has no time to catch his breath before the world tilts around him. When the even more terrifying moment of disorientation ends, he realizes what it is: he's slung over the man's shoulder in a fireman's carry, looking at his front door. Which is retreating, because he's headed back towards the camera.

"Hm, looks like your fans are disappointed." The world lurches again as he stoops down-- is he adjusting the camera? Pointing it down so that it doesn't catch his face? "Maybe they should punish you-- you did walk off and leave them without warning them you were bringing in your _special guest_."

He can hear his chat notifications going berserk. _Ping, ping, ping_

"Oh, I like that idea. A fan is offering twenty dollars for every hit you can take on that cute ass you never let them see. And another generous soul will give you fifty if we take your pants off."

_What the fuck, no_ is what he wants to say.

"My ass costs more than that," he says instead, trying his best to keep his flirty streamer voice on. _Don't tell anyone who I am, don't kill me, just rob me or humiliate me in front of the audience for your channel and then leave._

_Ping, ping, ping._

"We have three more contributions to the cause; thanks, everyone. I think your ass is worth two hundred and fifty dollars, don't you?" There's no pause for an answer; he's been dropped and barely steadies himself without the aid of his hands before broad, gloved hands unbuckle his belt and shove his jeans and underwear down around his knees.

_Pingpingpingpingping._

His face is burning. He can feel the blush from his scalp down to his chest; it must be hideously bright.

When he's slung over the man's lap, ass on display and legs all but bound together by the denim around his knees, there's another flurry of notifications.

"You'll need to count, so everyone knows you're giving them what they paid for."

That's when he recognizes the voice, sort of. It's definitely another streamer, but he still can't place which one. Is this some kind of sick sabotage to get viewers? Has he already been doxxed to the entire internet, and he just hasn't realized yet? If that's the case, will there be any consequences at all to squirming forward far enough to dig a knee right into this fucker's groin?

Or will that make someone who must be here for humiliation or trolling angry enough to get _really_ violent?

_Crack_. He hears the hand hit his ass before the pain registers, but when it does he jerks up so hard he almost falls to the floor. It hurts, fuck, have there really been so many people watching his channel who've been waiting to watch him suffer?

"One," he barely remembers to say. He has a sinking feeling that if he doesn't say it, neither his tormenter nor his audience will count it.

There's another cacophony of notifications.

"Two!" The second blow is worse than the first. Is this going to keep up until he passes out? Until he cries and begs for it to stop? Until he outs himself and takes away any leverage this man might have? Or until the donations run out?

He makes it to five before he misses a beat. Instead he hiccups, swallowing down the sob that should be _six_. The pain is making him fuzzy, and it's hard to think when he has to choose between leaning into the full impact or trying to squirm away. Which only rubs his inexplicably half-hard cock against worn-soft old jeans and makes everything worse.

There has to be something wrong with him. Nobody gets off on this kind of thing, right? And even if they do, he doesn't want this, doesn't want to be here--

The next smack, right in the stinging wake of the last one, is so bad that he flinches away. Which turns into grinding against the man's thigh, because at least that feels good and fuck, he needs a distraction.

"Seven!" He gasps out just in time.

"No," comes the condescending, bullshit answer. "You're still on six, sweetheart."

_Fuck you, don't call me that._

"Seven," he tries again when the next hit lands. That's what they're on now, right?

" _We._ " Slap. " _Are._ " Slap. " _Still._ " Slap. " _On._ " Slap. " _Six!_ "

He can't breathe. He's completely hard now, grinding down and straining against the handcuffs. And he's fucking sobbing, has been since the spanking between _still_ and _on_.

He can hear more messages, and he's afraid of how many more times they want from him. He can't take this anymore, he can't, he's going to tell everyone his address and beg them to call the cops, call his friends, call anyone, as soon as he stops bawling and catches a breath.

Instead of a blow, two hands settle on his ass and start rubbing at him. At first it's a soft, almost petting touch, but against his burning skin it feels like the time he'd put his hand on a hot iron. The gentle touch has him writhing, trying to get away from the pain or at least distract from it with a little bit of pleasure.

"No wonder you kept getting it wrong-- you didn't want me to stop. You did it on purpose, didn't you?" The fingers on him turn sharp and firm, more kneading into him than petting him now.

It does something terrible to him, the combination of pleasure and humiliation and agony. Snaps something holding him back and leaves him helpless to do anything but squirm between the hands and the friction, between the pain and the horror of liking something about this.

Then it stops and he's left twitching and crying, still not enough in command of his own breathing to look up and say _I don't want this, call someone, please_ because ruining his life might actually be preferable to this.

"I'll be right back." Just like that, he's on his knees on the floor. It takes all of his balance not to pitch forward and land face-first on his laptop, which is open to the comment feed.

 

**ugh there r enough gay 4 pay channels here already?? ******

 

******stfu, if this us lex's nwe format i'm becomign a subscriber** ** **

 

******Seriously, Lex has been cockteasing everyone long enough. This is quality content.** ** **

 

******$500 if you leave off the condom, babe** ** **

 

The last comment makes something seize up in his throat. He still can't think of who this is, except as a malicious peer of his whose channel he can't place. This could be anyone, he could have been anywhere.

"What do they want from you?" The hand at his throat is a reminder that he has to go along with this. He can still breathe, but it's enough to keep his head pinned back against a broad chest and keep him from tilting his chin up for a good look at the man's face.

"No," he hiccups, and the hand on his throat presses down. "No condom."

The pressure relents immediately.

"Sorry." It's an almost sweet murmur in his ear, probably too soft for the microphone to pick up clearly. "I thought you were telling me _no_. Get back on my lap, like you were. We're almost done."

He knows the theory of what's about to happen, but not the practice. That doesn't help a goddamn bit when there's a slick pressure all at once, the painful stretch hitting him in the same awful, inexplicable way that the spanking had. There must be a wet spot on the denim now, if there hadn't been already.

It feels like two fingers, if he stops to think about it. The crook of those fingers is all he can think about; all the rest of his brainpower is going to gasping for air and willing his cock to soften. He's not going to get off on this, on camera in front of these awful people who've turned into fucking _hyenas_ at the sight of him half-naked and in tears.

He doesn't go soft, even though he has a vague recollection that it's supposed to work that way. Maybe only some guys can stay hard like this, and he's one of that lucky (unlucky, more like) number. Or everything he's heard is bullshit, because it's not like he's got any fucking idea about anything except the stretch getting wider and his hips jerking down and forward on their own.

There has to be something else he can concentrate on. Breathing, or how goddamn cold whatever it is lubing him up is. Cold and messy and there's so much of it that it squelches up out of him with a really disgusting sound with every thrust.

He's hauled up again, straddling the lap instead of laying over it, and he's facing the camera. There are fingers scrubbing through his hair, forcing it back from his face so he can't hide behind it. The other hand is on his hip, and at some point the fucker had opened his fly. Because that's definitely a cock rubbing at him, nudging at his hole with just enough pressure to make his breath catch.

"If your neighbors hear you scream and someone calls the cops, everyone will find out from the police report." The hand on his hip digs in harder. "Tell me if you need me to gag you."

He doesn't say anything because he doesn't have the chance. There's no pause for an answer before he can't breathe because _there's no room in him for air_. At least that's what it feels like, like every time a little more cock pushes into him more air is forced from his lungs. It hurts so much that he can't even scream, just make those awful, hiccupy crying noises from before.

"I can't," he manages to gasp once his throat stops seizing like he's inhaled water. "It's too much."

"I get that a lot." Fuck, _fuck_ , this piece of shit is talking to the audience like this is part of a script. "Come on, tell them all about how big I am."

The hand in his hair leaves, settles on his other hip. _No,_ , he's pretty sure he knows what it means that he's being lifted up--

He doesn't even recognize the noise that falls from his mouth when he's slammed down all the way in one nauseating motion. It's not loud, but it comes from somewhere deep in his chest and it sounds like a wounded animal.

Which is exactly how he feels, sitting wrenched open and full and with pain twisting up his spine. He's not hard anymore; whatever stupid brain misfire or crossed wires had caused his reaction before, it's no match for the combined agony of his bruised ass and the cock splitting him in two.

"Breathe, pretty boy." It sounds like it's more for the audience than for him, a purring line delivered for their benefit and not a whispered threat. "We can't have you passing out right when we get to the good part."

He breathes. Closes his eyes, lets his head drop in defeat as he tries not to pass out or shake apart. It's not so bad once he gets used to it, the stabbing pain finally settling down into a raw ache. It's the burn of muscle strain now, of being stretched to the edge of too far.

Someone could arrange the pinging from the comments section into a symphony, and he can just imagine what they are. _Lex, babe, pretty boy, fuck him, open your eyes, tell us you like it and give us what we paid for._

He can't do it. Everyone's going to find out, he's going to kill his grandmother and get himself harassed right off campus. He should have screamed at the beginning, back when the worst thing he'd done had been take his shirt off and flirt with anyone who tossed ten dollars at him. That would have been a hell of a lot easier to recover from than getting railed live on camera. Railed _bareback_ because someone offered him money to do it.

There's only one hand on his hip now; the other wraps around his cock, which stirs to half-mast at the touch now that the immediate agony has settled. At least, he's going to tell himself it's the hand that has him getting hard again, and not the ache or the eyes on him or the thought of how much money is going to be in his account tomorrow.

"If you want my hand, you're going to have to do some of the work." The hand still on his hip nudges at him. "Make up those leg days you skipped last week."

Oh God, he had. This fucker's been watching him, listening to him admit that he'd been slacking off at the gym.

The notification pings all run together, and they don't stop as he lifts himself up onto shaky knees and falls back down. Which wakes up the pain all over again, makes him wilt and choke back a sob. There's no way he can get off on camera, no matter how much they pay him and no matter what kind of furious and horrified messages are going to fill up his email in English and his voicemail in Russian tomorrow.

"I can't," he says again. "You're-- too big." That's it, maybe he can flip the script and get it over with. "Don't worry about me, I can get off later."

He almost regrets that when punishing pull up and drop down of the first thrust turns into a rhythm that threatens to make him pass out. Every time he manages to wheeze air into his lungs it's shoved back out, and between the lightheadedness and the surreal soundtrack of _pingpingping_ in the background he can't think.

And then there's one last thrust and it's over. There's a gasp that isn't his and the grip on his hips goes even more bruisingly tight before it slackens. It takes at least the space of a few breaths and a lot of furious chat pinging before anything else happens.

"You're pretty good at this." That's all the warning he gets before he's lifted up and set down on his feet. His knees threaten to give out, buckle until he just barely manages not to hit the floor, and then do it a second time when he realizes that he can feel something dripping out of him.

He doesn't dare look down to see if it's lube or come or both.

"I think that's all your fans want out of me-- walk me to the door so they can get a good look at how wrecked you are." An iron grip on the back of his neck keeps him facing forward; he still hasn't gotten a good look at whomever is doing this to him.

But it's over, he's about to be _alone_. He can turn off the camera and take a shower, barricade his front door with whatever furniture he can manage to drag in front of it and delete his channel.

"Thanks for having me, everyone." There's that practiced streamer voice again, the one that makes him think he _knows_ this terrible person's work from somewhere. "Don't forget to like and subscribe, especially if you want to let Lex know you like the new format."

Then there's a jingle of keys and he's headed for the front door.

"You promised them you'd get off later." The hand on his nape feels more like a choke chain or a leaden weight. "I think you should do it for them before you sign off. Maybe let them see you clean up, that's on-brand for you. You do that, and no one sees the video I planned about how to turn a vapid social media whore into a porn star in less than an hour."

" _Don't,_ " he wheezes. "Don't, please, I did everything you told me to."

"So far. Do that last thing and your secret is safe with me." The keys are to the handcuffs, he realizes. They're off, and if his shoulders weren't screaming and his hands numb he would punch this piece of shit--

"Okay," he says instead. "Okay, I'll do that. Just go and don't tell anyone. _Please_."

"I'll be watching on my phone." It sounds like a threat, but he can't bring himself to care. Not when the door opens and shuts and he's alone again. He's about to slump against the door and start crying again when he hears the pinging again.

Right. Alone, except for a few hundred people jerking it to him right now.

"Sorry that took so long," he says when he's back in front of the camera, and he even manages to keep his voice from breaking in the middle. He fixes the angle, since it's not like he needs to worry about hiding anyone's face. "I know you remember when I told you about my glass shower door, because you keep asking about when you get to see me through it. If you give me a couple of minutes, I'll have a camera going in there for you."

_Breathe. Smile for the camera. Don't cover yourself up, and wait to cry until the water is on._


End file.
